


Wolf Hunter

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, but danger still lurks in the darkness. ASOIAF Future-fic.<br/>Spoilers for all of the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf Hunter

They had buried Osha by the twisted remains of the Heart Tree, and Sansa found Rickon out where the Godswood had once been, chasing Shaggydog through the snow. He was still small for his age, but he had a maturity and quiet common sense to him that many men three times his age lacked. When he saw her waiting for him, he loped over to her, Shaggydog trailing behind him.

She reached out and adjusted his cloak, out of habit. "I have news," she said.

"Bad news?" he asked. He shoved his hair out of his eyes, and looked at her seriously.

"King Petyr has asked me to marry him," Sansa said. In truth, she had been expecting the missive ever since Petyr had given her Winterfell. He had crowned her Queen in the North and she had helped him to defeat the Targaryens in the south. Now that the last of Varys' little birds had been rooted out, and all of the kingdoms had sworn fealty to the new King, Petyr would consolidate his power.

And he would finally lay claim to her. She shivered at the thought. It wasn't unpleasant, but it made her nervous all the same.

"Will you go?" he asked. They turned to walk back to the main hall. It was only half finished, and she knew it would never be like it had once been. Sansa was taking advantage of the lull in the weather to build a fort that could hold off the White Walkers. The walls were still smooth and new, untouched by the wind and the snow. To the north of the keep, she had ordered barracks built. She knew that one day soon they would be needed.

She dropped her eyes from the heights and looked at her brother. "Yes," she said. _I've always known,_ she thought. "You'll be in charge of Winterfell, with Bran."

He looked up at her solemnly. "I wish you didn't have to go," he said.

Sansa smiled at him. She would have loved nothing better than to stay in the North with her brothers, in her home, but she knew that Bran and Rickon would be better masters of Winterfell than she was. They had their warg forms, and Bran spent more time north of the Wall than he did in Winterfell. And Jon was at the Wall. Between the three of them, they would keep the North secure.

"We all have our roles to play," she said. Rickon pulled her into a sudden hug, and she buried her face in his fur collar to hide the tears that welled in her eyes. She was the Queen of the North. She didn't have the luxury of tears. Still, she held her baby brother tightly.

"You'll be fine," she said again.

+

Ser Lothor Brune was sitting by the fire in her solar. His travel-worn clothes were plain and workmanlike, but he had a silver mockingbird pinned to his breast, and a ribbon bearing the King's seal was on her desk. The missive he bore was short, formal, and to the point. A legal document, not a love letter. She had expected no more.

She waved him back into his chair when he stood to greet her.

"I trust you're refreshed from your journey?" she asked him.

"I am, your Grace," he said. "Your rooms are very comfortable."

"When does his Grace expect us to arrive?" she asked. There was little point to formalities with Ser Lothor. She knew him well.

"Within three months," he said. "If it please your Grace."

"It does," Sansa said. They would have to leave soon, she though, with a pang.

But there was nothing for it. And Petyr was waiting for her.

+

Two weeks later, they set out for King's Landing. The train was a small one, and it moved quickly. With winter settling in, there was no wisdom in dallying, and besides, Sansa didn't want to be trapped in the stifling confines of her wheelhouse for any longer than she had to be.

The last time she had made this journey, five years ago, she'd been a child, full of dreams of romance and chivalry. Now she was a woman, twice wedded and twice widowed. She was one of the most powerful landholders in the entire realm, and she looked upon the royal court as a pit of vipers.

Fifty leagues from King's Landing the wheelhouse came to a halt. Steel clashed on steel and Sansa sat bolt upright on her bench.

"What is it?" she asked. Lothor Brune, who was sitting across from her, took off his cloak.

"Bandits," he said, "who were fool enough to attack the future Queen of Westeros. Stay inside." The door slammed shut behind him. Sansa reached out blindly and grasped her maid's hand.

"Oh _gods_!" Meha cried. She was a Wilding girl, still a little rough around the edges, but she made a better companion for Sansa than a fine-bred Westerosi girl. She also knew how to defend herself with a weapon if need be. That suited Sansa even more.

Sansa felt as if she had spent her entire life listening to men fighting each other, to the clash of swords and the groans of dying men, but it still frightened her.

"Is it bandits?" Meha was asking. There was a dull thud outside as something or someone hit the side of the wheelhouse.

"Lothor will see them off," Sansa said. She hoped it was true.

After what seemed like an eternity, it went quiet outside. The door to the wheelhouse opened, and light flooded in, blinding Sansa. A big man, heavily cowled, was standing outside.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing to her. Sansa reached for her dagger.

"No need for that," the man said, "your men are all dead." He stepped into the wheelhouse and quickly, before her vision cleared, grabbed Meha by the neck. He pressed a knife to her throat.

Sansa saw the knife, and gasped. She knew that hilt.

"You're _dead_ -" she said. Ice curled in the pit of her stomach. "We killed you."

"Did you?" Lord Varys made a show of examining his body. "It appears one of your little birds led you wrong. Good help is _so_ hard to find nowadays."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he continued amiably. "I'm just passing on a message to hi grace the King." He smiled at her.

"Now," the Spider said, leaning in, "you must say exactly what I tell you."

Sansa gave him an icy glare.

The eunuch's smile disappeared. "Tell your backstabbing usurper that I'm going to take from him every single thing he values in this world. I'm going to strip all of the joy from his life and make him wish he'd never taken the throne. And rest assured, Old Valyria will rise again. He's only a... temporary setback."

He handed her the dagger she had dropped. "You tell him that. My men will see to it that you reach King's Landing safely."

He bowed again, and jumped delicately out of the wheelhouse. "Safe journey, my lady," he said.

The door slammed shut, and she heard him bar it. She took a long, shaky breath, and helped Meha off of the floor.

  
+

The Queen of the North entered King's Landing in spectacular style, attended by twelve white-cloaked guards and riding a beautiful grey stallion. _The Snow Queen,_ they called her. Her clothes were finely wrought and her famed red hair glinted in the winter sunlight. She looked so stern, the women said to each other. But her solemn face did not mar her famed beauty. It was said that she was as cold and harsh as the wintery lands that she ruled over, and that she was the perfect Queen to steer the Seven Kingdoms through the Long Winter. It was best that the North and South were joined; this was no time for wars or rivalry. They needed to survive. And so the Northern Queen, in her wisdom, had consented to marry the new King.

She was no Queen Margaery, but the smallfolk loved her nonetheless.

+

Petyr Baelish, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, was waiting for her in the courtyard of the Red Keep. He was dressed in a grey silk doublet embroidered with purple thread and gilded beads, and had a fur-lined cape buckled over his left shoulder. A light dusting of snow clung to his shoulders and boots.

He smiled when Sansa Stark came through the main gates. One of the kingsguard lifted her down from her mount, and followed her as she walked across the courtyard. She was more beautiful than ever before, he thought. His Ice Maiden had grown into a Queen. It suited her.

"My lady," he said, bowing deeply. Half the world knew that he had given her her throne in the North, but they would still follow protocol. There would be time to speak privately later. Now they had to put on a show.

"Your Grace," she replied stiffly, dipping into a curtsey. Her eyes darted towards the guard who was standing beside her. Petyr frowned.

Something was wrong.

"Lord Varys has a message for you," Sansa said, and then the man standing beside her stabbed her in the chest.

An instant later, an arrow sprouted out of his neck, and the yard was an uproar of clashing swords and screaming men. Petyr Baelish, shouting for a Maester as his kingsguard closed ranks around him, barely noticed any of it. All he could see was Sansa's limp body sprawled in the muddy snow, her silver gown stained red with blood.

+

Maester Colemon came out of Sansa's room looking exhausted. He dipped his head to Petyr.

"She's alive," he said gravely. _Thank the Gods_. As Petyr went to open the door, the Maester grasped him by the wrist. "Your Grace-" he said, gently, "don't expect her to see the morning. She lost too much blood."

The king sagged against the door as if the words had been a physical blow.

"You're certain?" he asked, his eyes dark.

"She's dying, your Grace. It's only a matter of time."

"Gods," Petyr murmured. He pressed his forehead to the cool wood of the door for a moment, and then he straightened his shoulders, and went to Sansa's deathbed.

She looked very small, lying pale and bloodied against the sheets. A ragged red line twisted from her collarbone nearly to her belly, where the blood was seeping through her bandages. His hand went unconsciously to his own chest.

 _I'm so sorry,_ he thought, taking Sansa's cold hand in his own, and he wasn't certain if he was apologizing to Cat or to Sansa.

He sank down into the chair beside the bed, and waited.

+

He must've slept, because he woke suddenly to find a woman standing over the bed. Her face was plain and her dark hair was cut like a man's.

His hand flew to his dagger.

"Who are you?" he asked. She shouldn't have been in here, not at this hour. And she didn't much look like a silent sister.

The woman looked up at him. "I am no one," she said. Her gaze made his skin crawl. But there was something... he had met this woman before, he knew it. Where?

"Nobody is 'no one'," he said. "Tell me who sent you here."

"I came here of my own free will, King," she said. She gave him a brief, wry smile, no more than a twist of her lips, as if she was out of practice. She knelt beside the bed, heedless of the bloodstained sheets, and stroked Sansa's hair.

"I am here to repay a debt," she said, not taking her eyes off of Sansa's still form. "A man would leave if he wants her to live."

Sansa looked dead already. Her lips were pale and her hair shone like fire against her white skin. The blood had completely stained her bandages, now. He felt dizzy, suddenly, and he remembered the burning agony of Brandon Stark's blade as it bit into his chest, and how Catelyn had pleaded for his life.

 _Don't expect her to see the morning._ How long had he slept? How much time had he lost?

The stranger looked back up at him. "I'm not going to kill her, King. I can promise you that."

 _A Faceless Man_ , he realized. She must have read some sign of his thoughts on his face, because her mouth twisted again. "If I had been hired to kill you, you would be dead, King. Now _go_."

He clenched his hand around the hilt of his dagger, and looked from the Faceless Woman to Sansa's pale form. The woman was still looking at him.

"Go," she said again.

He went. As he closed the door, the Faceless Woman bent her head and whispered something in Sansa's ear.

+

Dawn was creeping over the horizon by the time the Faceless Woman emerged from Sansa's room. Her plain leather boots made no noise when she moved. Her face was grey and her gait was awkward, as if she'd been drained of all her energy.

Petyr, who was sitting in the hall with a flagon of wine and his dagger, looked up at her hopefully.

"Death will not take her," the Faceless Woman said. "Not today."

"What did you do?" he asked, aware that the question was reckless. He didn't care.

"A life for a life," the woman said. She reached for the wine and poured herself a cup.

Petyr waited for her to finish her drink. "What reward do you want?" he asked. "Gold?"

"I want a contract," the Faceless Woman said. "Give me a name."

"Lord Varys the Eunuch," Petyr said.

And she smiled like a wolf.


End file.
